


you shake things up and get the picture in your head right

by shockvaluecola



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Spanking, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Subspace, Teasing, no beta we die like men, wooden spoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shockvaluecola/pseuds/shockvaluecola
Summary: Life would be so much easier if Quentin could occasionally just calm the fuck down and do what he's told. Unfortunately, his "calm the fuck down" button is broken, so sometimes Eliot's got to pull out some tricks.Eliot sighed, watching Quentin stack papers with a thunderous frown. He knew that Quentin's inability to sub consistently was as frustrating for him as it was for Eliot. It wasn't that herelated, per se, but he could understand the appeal of subbing out for someone like Quentin, in the same way that the feeling of being trusted, of holding someone in his hands and helping them to fly, was satisfying to Eliot in his heart, in his soul, in his bones.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 30
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I guess we're doing this now. This fandom has a tragic shortage of daddy kink for the amount of times Eliot calls himself Daddy, so here we are.
> 
> Porn is definitely coming, so the rating is going to go up and tags will be added. Definitely blowjobs, sex, and Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick. I'm GUESSING this will end up in three chapters, but that might also change -- please do subscribe for the updates! This is mosaic timeline, set some time after Eliot and Quentin start hooking up, but before Quentin and Arielle get together.
> 
> Title is from "Melancholy Kaleidoscope" by All Time Low, which is a deeply Quentin song.
> 
> Hit me up in the comments if you want to beta future chapters! Also like if there's a Magicians discord somewhere maybe someone could link me???

Quentin was, regrettably, At It Again.

Eliot knew this mood. He'd seen the sour look on Q when they woke up and hoped that the nice breakfast he made -- some bacon they'd gotten from the village, then eggs and toast from some good brown bread, left over from yesterday and cooked in the grease so it was rich and fragrant -- would head it off. Quentin had seemed happy for the food, giving him a little smile and a kiss in thanks, but now he was clattering around the mosaic, doing useless and annoying things like shuffling papers around and inspecting their pigment sticks closely when he could be, you know, helping. He hadn't progressed to being outright destructive yet, but it was coming.

It was because of last night. They had sex pretty regularly now, but they didn't always dip into the BDSM stuff because, frankly, it was kind of a fucking production (heh, literally) and they didn't always have the energy, mental or physical, at the end of a long day. But last night Eliot had tried a new method, just running his hands over Quentin and telling him he was safe and it was okay to relax and Eliot would protect him and be in control. For awhile it had seemed like it was working, but when Eliot moved on to sexual touching Quentin had tensed up and it had gotten weird and they'd both gone to sleep unfucked.

Eliot sighed, watching Quentin stack papers with a thunderous frown. He knew that Quentin's inability to sub consistently was as frustrating for him as it was for Eliot. It wasn't that he _related_ , per se, because the way he'd heard subspace described actually sounded like kind of a nightmare to him. Likewise, he knew that having to make all the decisions and be relied on to keep a partner safe were some people's living hell. But he could understand the appeal of subbing out for someone like Quentin -- someone with his, in his own words, 'broken-ass brain' -- in the same way that the feeling of being trusted, of holding someone in his hands and helping them to fly, was satisfying to Eliot in his heart, in his soul, in his bones.

The problem was that subspace wasn't something Quentin could analyze his way into. Quentin liked facts, he liked numbers, he liked Circumstances that he could fit together into tuts and words and real world effects. Even a year behind Eliot in his education, he was better at metacomposition than Eliot was ever going to be because he had the patience to pick out all the tiny details and rifle through his magical toolbox until he had it just right. Eliot couldn't complain, because Quentin had eventually mathed himself into kissing him, that one night, but some things would be a lot easier if Quentin could have, like, just _one_ ounce of chill, ever, if he could just let himself relax and realize that it was okay to want Eliot to fuck him.

So here they were, with Eliot being at least marginally productive and Quentin giving a mutinous look to the nearest stack of tiles like it had just fucked his mother and showed up to the breakfast table smoking a cigarette. 

"Quentin," Eliot said, tone light and breezy, like nothing was happening. "Could you come help me with this? I'm deciding between shades of blue."

"No."

Eliot sighed and looked to the sky, like fucking Ember and Umber were going to help him out here. He looked back at Quentin just in time for him to push a lock of hair back behind his ear, and something about the motion and his face struck him right in the heart. Eliot had fucked a lot of people, but he'd never wanted to make love to someone like he wanted to make love to Quentin Coldwater.

But then Q gave him that belligerent look, that 'I feel like breaking something and I don't care if it's a tile or your feelings' face, and Eliot got over it.

"Quentin," he snapped. "Come here."

His enunciation was sharp, like commanding a misbehaving dog. He watched as Quentin took a couple steps, halted like a robot shorting out, and paused. Eliot could almost see the wheels turning in Quentin's head, weighing whether to obey or act like a brat. He seemed to decide on the former, if a little reluctantly, slowly resuming his movements and coming closer.

"Good boy," Eliot praised, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to tell me how you're feeling, sweetheart?"

"Not really," Quentin said, and while it sounded moody and resentful, Eliot recognized the face. Quentin knew he was being a little bitch, and he felt bad about it. That, or he felt bad and therefore was being a little bitch. Or both! With the kind of feedback loops Q's depression brain could get into, sometimes cause and effect were fuzzy.

"Okay, then let me tell you how I'm feeling," Eliot said. "I can see that you're frustrated, and I want to help, because I care about you, so when you feel bad, I feel bad. So I want to try something. Interested?"

Reluctantly, Quentin nodded.

"Cool. It's kind of a roleplay thing. I'm sure you've heard of daddy kink."

Admittedly, it was kind of fun to see the flabbergasted look on Quentin's face, but Eliot squeezed his shoulder calmingly. "I think it'll make it easier for me to be structured with you, which I think you might benefit from. I also think it'll make it easier to be patient with you, because when you try to take your bad mood out on me, patience kind of goes out the window and it makes me want to fuck that bratty little mouth so hard you can't actually speak for a week."

The startled look Quentin gave him was made much, much funnier by the fact that he was clearly ready to get on his knees right now.

"But, as horny as you are for it," Eliot continued, "you know I'm not going to do that. Not right now." His tone gentled. "Because then I would be hurting you out of anger, and I promised you that would never happen, didn't I?"

Quentin looked away and nodded. Eliot reached out with a little sigh, pushing that errant lock of hair behind Quentin's ear for him.

"Boys like you need daddies to correct you," he said, still soft and gentle as he played with the hair and ran his fingers down Quentin's neck. "Punishment would just hurt both of us, wouldn't it, baby boy?"

Eliot could hear Quentin's throat clicking as he swallowed, looking up at him with those wide, guileless eyes. "I-it would?"

Eliot nodded. "You wouldn't learn anything, and I'd feel bad about doing it. You just need patience and correction. You want to be good for me, sweet boy, you just don't know how. Isn't that right?"

Quentin looked stricken, and Eliot felt his heart thump a little. His Q could be so sweet, when he wanted to be.

"That's okay, baby," Eliot said with an encouraging smile. This was okay, he could do this. "All you have to do is listen and Daddy will teach you. Does that sound okay?"

Quentin nodded, swallowing again. "Yes."

Eliot raised an eyebrow. "Yes, who?"

Quentin glanced up at him, and traces of that mutinous look were back. Eliot sighed and put his other hand on Quentin's cheek, making him meet Eliot's eyes.

"We've talked about red and yellow, right? If I tell you to do anything you don't like or think you can't manage, you can use a word and we can talk it out. That doesn't change just because we're doing kind of a roleplay thing." Briefly, Eliot mused that he should have tried this sooner. Maybe stepping into a role would help Q step out of himself and chill the fuck out.

It was kind of interesting how helplessly open Quentin's face was, because Eliot could actually see him steeling himself against the nerves. "Yes...Daddy."

Eliot gave him a warm smile and drew him in for a kiss. "Good boy."

Quentin was quiet for a moment when they parted, but in that loaded way where he intended to speak and hadn't found the words yet, so Eliot waited. "So," he said finally, "what, I'm like..."

Eliot blinked uncomprehendingly for a second. "Like a kid? No, you don't have to act young if you don't want to. I mean, that is a way some people do it, but you can just act like yourself."

"Well, good to know," Quentin said, cocking his head a little. "But I meant like, am I your...you know...like is there a mom in the picture?"

"Like are you my son? No, no, it's not so..."

Eliot trailed off, taking a moment to consider this. Quentin's analytical mind was going to need the right framing for this, to start with, and he didn't want either of them losing a boner because someone pictured a tired dad changing a diaper. "I'm not a _father_ , right?" he began. "I'm a daddy. And you're not a son, you're a baby boy. It's not a familial relationship, it's its own thing. Think of it like top and bottom," Eliot reasoned. "Theoretically, any top could fuck any bottom. Any daddy -- or mommy, I guess -- could theoretically guide any baby boy or baby girl. It's another relationship type like that."

Quentin nodded. "I guess that makes sense."

Eliot smiled, a little proud that they were connecting on this, and that Quentin was accepting it and not either sniping at him, or like, asking what the switch version of this was. Quentin liked to be very clear that he was a switch, thank you, and that he just happened to be fine with mostly bottoming because Eliot had a stronger preference.

"So should we, um, go inside, or..."

Eliot took Quentin's hand, lifting it to kiss his fingers. "Definitely not. We've still got work to finish, baby boy," he said, letting his voice resume that soft tone. "We're gonna finish one pattern and get it written down." They'd long given up the illusion that any particular arrangement was going to be the solution. His free hand came up, cupping the side of Quentin's neck and letting his fingertips rub through the soft hairs at the back. "Then, if you've been very good, and tried hard to listen to Daddy, then we can go inside. If not, we'll start on another pattern and go until you can get it together. You don't have to be perfect," he assured, shaking his head a little. "I won't get mad or punish you if you misbehave. But you do have to try. Can you do that?"

Quentin cut his eyes to the side, then looked up at Eliot. "One question."

"Anything, baby."

"Does that mean you'd theoretically Daddy a gi- woman?"

Eliot burst out laughing, both at the absurdity of _that_ being his question, and at Quentin's quick correction to not disrespecting the agency and adulthood of this completely theoretical person he was talking about.

"I mean, I could probably do the mental part with a woman, yeah," he said, nodding. "If she wanted me to. It just might or might not end up the way it's gonna end up with you," he said, drawing a finger down Quentin's nose and then booping it. "You'll see it's about a lot more than sex, though. All the not-sex parts would be on the table." Although, honestly, when Eliot thought about it, being in that Daddy-space would probably get under his skin enough to happily fuck whatever hole his baby presented to him. Eliot stuck that in the provisional spank bank, to be explored more later.

"Any more questions, baby boy?"

Quentin shook his head.

"Then are you ready to start?"

Quentin hesitated, but then nodded.

Eliot kissed him gently. "Good boy. Now why don't you bring some fresh paper? And when you come back, Daddy will have a plan."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof, this took longer than expected but here we go! chapter 3 is nothing but smut, so look for that soon!

So for awhile it was kind of, like, normal? It could very nearly have been any other day, except for some small differences. Quentin brought the new papers out, then Eliot explained where he was going with this pattern so far and asked for Quentin's thoughts. Quentin gave them ("maybe there could be, like, some birds?") and then suggested that he go start on another corner, while Eliot worked in this one.

Eliot's hand came up to the back of his neck again, heavy and warm. "I don't think that sounds very fitting, does it, baby boy? I don't think you're ready to be so independent from me."

Quentin could feel the tingle of his cheeks turning red. "N-no, I guess not."

Eliot just raised an eyebrow, grip tightening slightly.

"D-daddy," Quentin corrected.

He smiled, and Quentin felt warm, something tight inside him relaxing. That smile was like the sun coming out, even though the day was overcast.

"Why don't we sit and draw it out, first?" Eliot asked, still in that gentle, low voice. "Then you can get the ladder for Daddy and we'll work together."

So they did, and it put Quentin, like, low-key in mind of a kid doing a coloring book, but, it was fine. Eliot kept that hand on his neck and kept using that voice while he marked out squares, and Quentin wasn't, like, necessarily subbing out or feeling...like a kid? However that worked? He wasn't _happy_ , but he at least didn't feel like knocking things over anymore. So that felt...like improvement. Maybe there was something to this.

Eliot climbed the ladder, then, and sat in the seat at the top, and Quentin could already feel it unraveling. It was like going off his meds, except he had unfortunately not been medicated in a few years now, so it was without the benefit of some last lingering vestige of chemicals in his system. Eliot was still using the daddy voice as he directed Quentin, pointing patiently with his stick and not fucking with Quentin at all, but without the hand on his neck it just felt controlling.

"...and a red one there."

Quentin put down a dark green.

"No, baby, red."

He swapped it with white.

"Quentin."

"What." Quentin refused to look up, knowing that Eliot was definitely giving him _some kind of look_ and just, like, not fucking caring.

He heard the ladder creaking as Eliot shifted his weight. "Sweetheart, do you remember what I said about behaving?"

He'd said a couple of things about behaving, technically.

"I'm not going to hurt you. You just have to try for me."

Quentin finally looked up, only to give Eliot a sullen glare.

Eliot just sighed, looking disappointed but not surprised, and started to climb down the ladder. Quentin had to squash the urge to get up and run into the forest. He wasn't feeling quite _that_ extra. He stayed kneeling on the folded-up blanket, meant to protect his knees, as Eliot came to stand in front of him.

"Up."

His tone was still light, like he was asking for arms up to take a shirt off a toddler or something. Jesus fuck, Quentin wished he could stop making actual child comparisons. He just looked up, still glaring.

Eliot sighed and crouched down to his level, one hand holding the page, other hand holding his wrist. "Do you want to tell Daddy what's bothering you?"

"No," Quentin said, though he couldn't help glancing at the ladder.

Eliot turned to see where he was looking, then looked back with a speculative expression. "Hmm. Can I trust you to use the ladder responsibly?"

Quentin rolled his eyes.

"Guess not. Maybe we should put it away then."

Quentin couldn't seem to summon any kind of snark for that, not now that Eliot was here, within arm's reach, being so gentle and patient when Quentin didn't fucking deserve it. He looked up in time to see Eliot's face soften.

"You just need me closer, don't you, baby boy?" he asked softly, reaching out to run a hand over Quentin's hair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have used the ladder without asking if it was okay."

Quentin gave the ladder another resentful glance, but he was losing the heat for it. "I probably would have said it was," he admitted, finally giving in and closing his eyes as he leaned into the touch. "I didn't know it would make me feel bad."

"Well, I hope that if you start to feel bad again, you'll tell me instead of acting like a brat. Now we're going to have to start on a second pattern when we're done." Quentin's eyes snapped open suddenly, feeling wounded at that, but Eliot didn't react. "Can you promise to try to tell me, if it happens again?"

Looking down at the mosaic, Quentin gave a hard sniff, but nodded.

"Oh, sweet boy," Eliot said, and gathered Quentin into his arms, letting his knees come down on the blanket. Quentin turned into him, arms coming up to cling tightly as he let out a sob. There was a time not that long ago when he'd have resisted it, insisted he was fine and let it build until it broke, but Eliot had never made him feel bad for doing what he needed to do to survive, whether that was scream or fight or cry like a baby.

"That's it, let it out, love," Eliot was saying softly, stroking Quentin's hair. "You're a good boy. You cry as long as you need to, okay? My sweet boy."

_More than one way to get an endorphin high,_ said some sardonic voice in Quentin's head. He just held on and buried his face in Eliot's shoulder, definitely getting tears and snot all over his shirt. 

Being encouraged to let it out, it didn't take too long for Quentin to get through it. Soon enough he was settling, still sniffling and hiccuping against Eliot's shoulder, and Eliot was still holding him, petting his hair and whispering soothing nonsense. Quentin sniffed hard and pulled back, letting go of Eliot and sitting back on his heels to wipe at his face.

Eliot pulled a handkerchief from _somewhere_ , god, how was he always fucking prepared, and gently wiped at Quentin's cheeks, then handed it to him to blow his nose. Quentin did, and Eliot took it back, delicately folding it over before putting it back in his pocket. He let Quentin trail a half-step behind him while he took the ladder away, then came back to continue work on the pattern.

It was a little more complicated to follow a plan without the view from the top of the ladder, but they made it work, Eliot kneeling next to him or standing when his knees started hurting. That big, warm hand came to the back of his neck often, sometimes giving an idle, gentle rub before withdrawing. Every single time, the brewing storm inside Quentin went quiet.

As predicted, nothing happened with the last tile. Eliot sighed. "Okay, well, let's pull it up. Any suggestions for the next one to start, baby boy?"

They'd worked their way to the starting corner, so called because it had a little space cut into the side where you could pull up the first tile. Quentin dug his finger into the notch and flipped up the last one he'd placed (light yellow) to set it aside. "Not really," he said, but then he lifted his head suddenly, a single brain cell lighting up somewhere.

"Baby?"

"Um, yeah, actually, I do," Quentin said, nodding and starting to work with both hands, setting tiles on the side. "It's easier to show you. I will when we're done? Um, Daddy," he added.

Eliot just chuckled, low and warm, and knelt down with Quentin, kissing his head, then starting to pick tiles up.

"Okay, so um, there's this thing people do," Quentin said, standing at the side of the mosaic when they were done. "Uh, I've done it when you weren't here or weren't paying attention before, we've just never tried it together? Anyway," he said, shaking his head and pushing his hair back with both hands, rattling everything into place again. "Um, it's used a lot by people who need to create maps, either like fantasy authors or Dungeons and Dragons players, that kind of thing. Mostly the DND people," he admitted. "You take a bag of all your DND dice, right? And you dump it out over a whiteboard or a big piece of paper. Maybe you like, jostle it around, and then you draw lines around the piles and bam, you've got continents," he concluded with satisfaction. "So what if we just..."

Quentin crouched and grabbed a few random tiles off nearby stacks, piled them up in his hands, and tossed them out over the field, letting them scatter. He stood up, satisfied. 

"Right?" he said, looking at Eliot. "And maybe we'll get an idea or maybe we'll give up and pick them up again but it's at least a way to- what?"

Eliot was just staring at him with this unreadable little smile. The smile broke into a laugh as Quentin stared back, slightly perturbed.

"Nothing, baby boy, don't worry about it," he said. "I just love you, is all."

Quentin looked out at the field, dumbfounded. Had the tiles landed really good or something?

"Why don't you do a few more?" Eliot asked. "So we're not crashing into each other, and so you can show me how it's done."

"Okay, sure. Yeah." Quentin closed his eyes and picked up a few more tiles off random piles, so he couldn't subconsciously pick particular colors. Then he walked around to a random part of the mosaic, opened his eyes so he could aim, and tossed them. He repeated this a few more times, then stood on a corner to observe, just letting his mind be open to ideas.

"How about..." Eliot picked up a small pile of the medium green tiles, then gestured around one that was already down. Quentin dropped them, in kind of a trail following Eliot's gesture.

"Hmmm," Eliot said. "Dragon?"

Quentin could see it, and he could feel his mood lift a little. "The beauty of all life definitely includes dragons," he agreed.

Eliot smiled at him and stepped close to hold the back of his neck again. "This was a great idea, baby boy. I'm really proud of you for thinking of it."

Quentin could feel himself flush with pleasure. "Thanks dad," he said before he could stop himself. He tried not to grin.

Eliot rolled his eyes, but he was also trying not to smile. "Careful. You're just asking for a spanking."

The words were, finally, starting to come easier. "Are you offering, Daddy?"

Eliot licked his lips, a quick flick of the tongue, and stepped in closer, until their faces were an inch apart. "How do you ask, baby boy?" His voice was low and sweet, like honey dripping down Quentin's spine.

Quentin swallowed, not really feeling like laughing anymore. "Will...will you spank me, Daddy?"

Eliot just smiled, and finally brought Quentin closer for a kiss, deep and filthy. Quentin couldn't help a little moan as Eliot's tongue fucked into his mouth, and his hands came up, clutching at Eliot's forearms like he might float away if he didn't hold on. He could feel his own body reacting, wanting more. He shifted a little, pressing closer and maybe sort of pressing it into Eliot's hip -- he wasn't hard enough to feel much, but it was more to make the point.

Being pulled back by the hair made Quentin's eyes flutter. He watched, licking his lips, as Eliot examined his face, looking him over slowly like Quentin was some tiny thing he had under a microscope. It made the budding heat between his legs grow and made him want to squirm. The weight of that gaze, of being, like, _seen_ or whatever, was heavy. For a long time it had made him want to curl up and hide. Now he just wanted to bloom like a flower.

"I think we should go inside, baby boy," Eliot said. "Don't you?"

In record time, Eliot was sitting on the edge of their little bed, and Quentin was getting down to kneel between his legs, already a little breathless. Quentin had seen, like, a _couple_ of dicks that weren't his own, before Eliot's, not counting like, locker room stuff because those weren't hard and you weren't supposed to be, like, _looking_. It wasn't like they weren't unique, but there were common threads, a certain sameyness. Based on his own and the three guys he'd managed to pull, Quentin had been working on a Grand Unified Theory of Dicks, like how size didn't actually vary as widely as some men wanted you to think, or how teeth were always, always bad in a blowjob. But then he'd met Eliot and got all his grand ideas blown completely out of the water.

He couldn't help licking his lips as Eliot stroked himself, lazy and almost casual. It was huge, for one thing. Just, like, massive. Quentin had never thought he'd be a size queen, but he was pretty sure that Eliot had made him one. Nothing felt better than being fucked _deep_ , whether his throat or his ass. Eliot could touch places no one else could, which felt kind of dumb to say because those places were, like, in his gut and his esophagus so it really wasn't as _romantic_ as that sounded but fuck, it was still _true_. And the other thing was that Eliot was uncircumcised, which was kind of startling at first, but it turned out to not really be a big deal and Quentin turned out to love it? There was something so...so _primal_ about it. Maybe it was weird and, like, fetishizing or objectifying or something to be so into a part of Eliot's body he had no choice in, but the loose skin sliding over hard flesh made it easy to let go of decorum and just...go nuts.

Well. Easier. In comparison. He still didn't know if he was really in the expected headspace, but...he felt okay, he felt kind of nice, and he'd take that.

"Take your pants off, baby," Eliot said, and the warmth in it was heat now, burning through him. "A good boy should give head with his hole out, don't you think?"

Quentin flushed red, but he nodded, peeling off his trousers and discarding them. He felt weird about doing the Porky Pig, so he made to peel his shirt off, but Eliot leaned down, taking his hands to still them.

"You can have that off when I say you can, baby boy," he said, then sat up again, that warm hand coming to the back of his neck again. It felt so good, Quentin stopped thinking about the shirt, eyes closing of their own accord as his shoulders dropped a little. He hadn't even realized he was tensing them.

"Mmm, that's it, baby boy," Eliot purred, and he was pulling Quentin forward, so Quentin went without looking. "Just relax and open up for me. Come on, baby boy, let Daddy fuck that pretty mouth."

Quentin shivered and opened his mouth obediently, and when warm, smooth flesh touched his lips he licked them and slid down it, sighing as he sucked on the head like a piece of candy. He opened his eyes to see that Eliot still had a hand on it, pulling the skin back, and he was watching Quentin with his mouth open a little and pupils blown. He smiled down at Quentin looking up at him, an openmouthed, feral thing.

"Look at you, baby boy," Eliot said, fingers squeezing the back of his neck. "You've been wanting Daddy's cock all day, haven't you?"

Quentin nodded, which was a weird sensation with Eliot in his mouth.

"Mmm, that's right. You're a good boy, sweetheart. Look at you, you're so hard just from having your mouth filled. You look so pretty sucking Daddy's cock." That hand pulled him down more, making him take more of it, and Quentin closed his eyes again and focused on his task.

It was true that he was hard, poking out under the hem of his loose Fillorian shirt, but he wasn't really worried about that right now. Making Eliot feel good was much more important, he was sure he'd get his, but the cock in his mouth felt better than any touch could. He pressed forward again without needing to be told, taking Eliot deeper into his mouth. He wasn't, like, a super expert at deep throating, he couldn't do it for a long time, but he'd been working on the skill. He took a breath and bobbed down, relaxing his throat so he wouldn't gag and then swallowing as he pushed again.

"Oh, fuck," Eliot groaned above him, and Quentin felt his own cock jerk. "Fuck, baby boy, yes, that's so good, you're being so good for Daddy," Eliot panted, and it seemed kind of soon for him to be so close to coming. Was Quentin just being that good for him? It made him feel warm and motivated him to stay down a little longer. "Oh, god, your throat feels so good on Daddy's cock, that's it baby boy, swallow for Daddy..." Quentin swallowed around it, and relished the way Eliot cried out.

He had to pull back, eyes watering, but he bobbed on it enthusiastically, sucking and trying to remember to use his tongue, feeling the foreskin move under his lips. Eliot made a desperate sound, and then Quentin's mouth was filled with the salty, smoky taste of him. He swallowed happily and stayed sucking until Eliot pushed him off with a laugh, flinching and oversensitive. 

"Hmmm," Eliot sighed happily. He bent down for a kiss, big hands cupping Quentin's jaw. "Do you feel good, baby boy?"

Quentin nodded happily, leaning into those hands.

"Good, you're a good boy. You make your Daddy so happy. But we're not done yet."

His eyes popped open at that. Weren't they?

A lazy smirk spread itself across Eliot's face. "I believe Daddy promised you a spanking."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! There is definitely more coming from me in this fandom, I already have two things I'm working on right now, but I wanted to finish this because it came first. 
> 
> This chapter is pretty much nothing but porn, as the prophecy foretold, so hopefully that pays off all the goddamn buildup that was in the first couple chapters.

It seemed like Quentin was finally spaced out, acting sweet and happy and eager with none of his usual sass. Thank god he didn't seem to notice how embarrassingly fast Eliot had come -- he couldn't help it, "daddy" on Quentin's sweet lips was so much hotter than he'd thought it would be.

He hummed and leaned in to kiss his sweet boy, both hands cupping his face. "How do you feel, baby boy?" he asked, running one hand through his hair. "What's it like in that pretty little head of yours?"

Quentin moved with the hand through his hair, leaning in like he wanted to chase it. "Buzzy," he reported.

It was impossibly cute, and seemed like a subbed out kind of response. "Good," he said, giving Quentin another brief little kiss. "I love my sweet, buzzy-headed little boy."

Quentin leaned forward, tilting his chin up to ask for another kiss, and Eliot couldn't resist him when he was so sweet, he knew he wasn't gonna be able to keep his hands off his boy for the rest of the night. He encouraged Quentin's arms up around his waist and draped his own over Quentin's shoulders, keeping him close as he deepened the kiss. Even just making out like this, with Quentin so receptive and responsive, was something Eliot could get drunk on.

After awhile, he pulled back, giving Quentin this adoring little smile. "Do you want Daddy to spank you, baby boy?" He licked his lips and nodded, making Eliot hum. "I need you to talk now, sweetheart."

Quentin melted into Eliot's shoulder with a sigh. "S'hard."

God, he must have been really deep if he was having trouble talking, Eliot could just about scream, he was so good. His heart was absolutely bursting with the joy of it, with how well his precious boy was doing. Eliot could feel that he was just as deep in that daddy space as Quentin was in subspace, letting himself float on the high of it. 

He kissed Quentin's forehead. "I know, baby boy, you won't have to talk soon, but you know I can't hurt you unless you ask for it. Tell Daddy what you want him to do."

It was obviously taking him a minute to gather his thoughts, so Eliot just pet that silky hair and kept Quentin held and secure, resting against his shoulder. "Please spank me, Daddy," he managed eventually.

"Good _boy_ ," Eliot praised, tone warm and effusive, and kissed Quentin's forehead again. "Hmm, should I let you touch yourself? Or do you have to wait to come?" His tone was like he was musing out loud to himself, but he was offering Quentin a chance to voice a preference.

"Make me wait," Quentin murmured, turning so his face was hidden in Eliot's shoulder. "Not 'llowed 'til you fuck me."

He was so goddamn good Eliot's head was going to pop right off. "That's right, baby," he praised, kissing Q's head, since his forehead was no longer available. "Good boys don't come until their daddies fuck them. Mmm, but it's no fun if it's easy, so we'll see how hard you work for Daddy, and how good of a boy you can be, and maybe you'll get punished or rewarded. Do you want that, baby?"

Emphatic nodding, and Eliot kissed behind his ear, then whispered to him. "You're doing so good for me, baby boy. You don't have to talk anymore, okay? Relax for me, you're perfect."

"Thank you, Daddy," Quentin sighed, going boneless, and Eliot gave his hair a sharp little tug because he needed to do something. Quentin made a soft little sound of pleasure at it.

Eliot took his time getting the rest of Quentin's clothes off, then his own, pausing frequently for kisses and caresses, telling his baby boy how beautiful he was, how soft his hair, how strong his shoulders, how lovely his thighs. Naked, Eliot sat up against the wall and gently guided Quentin to lay down across his legs, ass over his lap. It was a comfortable position, where neither of them had to worry about balance or weight support, and Quentin could just relax and feel whatever Eliot saw fit to give him. 

"There you go, baby. It feels so nice to be in Daddy's lap, doesn't it?" Eliot purred, rubbing his hand over Quentin's ass, getting the skin used to touch first. "I know it does, baby boy. Now you know we're doing this to make you feel good, so what do you do if it doesn't feel good?" 

Quentin knocked on the wall by his hand. "Good _boy_ ," Eliot said with a grin. Q being nonverbal was fine, but he still needed a signal, anything would do as long as it was clear. The knock was perfect. Eliot let his hand come down in a sharp slap.

A twitch and a soft moan showed how Quentin felt about that, and Eliot hummed, giving several more light swats to both cheeks. He was really just letting the weight of his hand do the work, warming his boy up and getting the skin red as he sank his fingers into Quentin’s hair to pet it soothingly. _Blood rising to the surface acts as a cushion, prevents deep bruising. Get it red, then you can go to town,_ he recited in his mind, words he’d heard at a demonstration years ago. He reached down to the small space between the bed and the wall, picking up the flat wooden spoon Eliot had stashed down here. Quentin had been looking for it for weeks, but he wasn't going to notice right now.

A few light smacks, getting him used to the tool, then harder, leaving a brighter red oval against the pink of his skin. It made Quentin whimper, and Eliot clicked his tongue and cooed in sympathy, tucking the spoon into the crook of his thumb and stroking his fingers over the hurt spot, not wanting to move the other hand from his boy’s hair. "That one hurt good, didn't it, baby boy?"

Quentin nodded, making a noise that was trying to be words but just sounded like a moan. Eliot shushed him, giving his hair a light little tug, then resumed the hits, alternating gentle ones with harder ones, ones that would welt. Quentin's hips were starting to push, rubbing his hard dick into Eliot's leg.

"Someone's enjoying himself," Eliot observed with a chuckle, setting the spoon aside. He grabbed the oil off the window sill and dipped his fingers in quickly before replacing it. "Is Daddy making you feel so good, baby boy?" he asked, rubbing a slick finger between Quentin's cheeks, then pressing down on his hole.

Quentin cried out and the efforts of his hips increased, bucking so hard that he was kind of interfering with Eliot trying to finger him. He just laughed and gave his hair a harder tug, pushing two inside to hear how Quentin moaned at it.

It took a shockingly short time before Quentin's hips were starting to hitch, little breaks in the movement as he lost concentration and focus, lacked the sense to keep it going properly. He lost coordination like this when he was close, and Eliot hummed like he wasn't sure whether he approved or not, letting his fingers slide out.

" _Daddy_ ," Quentin cried out, and he sounded so broken and desperate that for a moment he wanted to drop the act and give Quentin everything he wanted, pin him down and reassure him that Eliot was here and he was going to spoil him rotten. But that was regular Eliot breaking through, Daddy Eliot wasn't inclined to give in so easily. After a moment of consideration, he leaned over, petting Quentin's hair to gentle him and dropping the Daddy voice for a minute.

"Hey, baby. Color?"

Quentin made an incoherent noise. Right, nonverbal. Perfectly dealable.

"Is it red?"

Q shook his head.

"Yellow?"

Q shook his head.

"Green?"

Q nodded so hard he nearly shook Eliot's hand off. Eliot smiled and kissed his shoulder, then sat up again. Working down from red was important, for a lot of reasons: no delay, if the answer _was_ red; checking that he wasn't so far gone that he would answer yes to anything; simple consistency, because it was what he always did and he didn't want to cause distress or confusion. 

"Roll over for Daddy," Eliot prompted, back in it now. "I want to see my baby boy's pretty cock."

Quentin's breath hitched and he scrambled to obey, making himself flinch and whine as his ass came into contact with Eliot's thighs. God, his skin was burning hot, Eliot had felt it under his hands but it was a whole other experience on his lap. Eliot adjusted him a little, helping him slide forward so his ass was on the bed and his lower back against Eliot's legs, a slightly less awkward position. Eliot decided to go all the way and sit Quentin up, bundling him into Eliot's chest with one arm, where Eliot's chin could rest on his head.

"Oh, baby boy," Eliot murmured, running his fingers lightly, too lightly, over Quentin's straining cock. "You love it so much when Daddy hurts you, don't you?"

Quentin made a keening sound and nodded. Eliot hummed happily and drew just one finger up the underside. Quentin whined and arched into that hand, desperate, but Eliot's arm gave him a squeeze.

"Shhhhh," he said softly, kissing Quentin's head as he circled his finger around the tip. "Be a good boy for Daddy."

Quentin whimpered again, but he settled, burying his face against Eliot's chest as Eliot teased him, tortured him with just one finger. "You're so gorgeous," Eliot whispered to him. "You're perfect. Your cock is perfect. It feels so good to let Daddy tease you, doesn't it? I know it does, baby," he murmured with a little smirk, knowing what that kind of presumption could do to Quentin. His pretty prick was bright red and wet with need now, twitching under the bare, insufficient stimulation it was getting. "Do you want more, sweet boy? Want Daddy to let you come?" he asked, letting his palm brush against it.

Quentin shook his head frantically, and Eliot felt pride swell in his chest again. "What a good boy," he praised, kissing Quentin's head as he dragged his fingers over it once more, then let the backs of his nails drag back up, just to make him shiver. "In that case, I think it's time you took care of Daddy, don't you?"

They both knew at this point that fucking was going to hurt, but they'd long established that Quentin didn't mind it, even liked the reminder of what they'd been doing. Eliot rolled him onto his stomach, where he wouldn't have to think about balance or rhythm or anything at all except how Daddy felt inside him, and kissed the welts gently as he set about opening Quentin up, wishing he could bottle and drink the way it made shivers roll through Quentin's body. He'd never touch alcohol again.

Eliot was already panting as he pressed himself inside, trying not to shudder at the heat and squeeze of Quentin's body. "Good boy," he breathed, planting his hands in the middle of Quentin's back for balance as he quickly worked up to a lively pace. It was easy to put this off when he was in the right headspace, easy to ignore how hard he was while it wasn't the time for that, but now that it was time to think about it he felt like he might die if he didn't come soon, losing all finesse and all reason, just fucking into his boy like something feral.

The scream Eliot let out when he came felt like it started in his gut, and no sooner was it over than he was pulling out, flipping Quentin over carelessly and wrapping one large hand around his cock, stroking firmly.

"Come on, baby boy," he growled, voice ragged. "I love you so much, you're so good, it's time to come for Daddy."

Quentin made a sound like he was shattering, and did.

~

As Quentin's awareness slowly returned, he became aware of just how deeply, deeply fucked he was, but like, in the good way. He had been _fucked_ , Eliot had fucked his, his goddamn _soul_. Somewhere inside him his Shade was smoking a cigarette. His head was going to be pleasantly empty, his feelings smooth-edged and gentle, for fucking _days_.

He became aware of warm skin under his cheek and lifted his head, blinking up at Eliot, who was playing with his hair. "Hey," Eliot said with a soft little smile. "I want to debrief later, but, naptime?"

Quentin nodded and dropped his head, and slept better than he had in weeks.


End file.
